


Battle Scars

by koalaboy



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Killing Joke (2016)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, is that what its called?, just some old grandpa gays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalaboy/pseuds/koalaboy
Summary: Jim Gordon is reluctant to open up to billionaire Bruce Wayne's butler, Alfred Pennyworth, but he soon finds he has more in common with the man than he thought.





	Battle Scars

**Author's Note:**

> cw for slight implication of non-con/rape, and i do mean SLIGHT, in the first chapter. Just in case :)

Gordon groans as he gets up from his position on the sofa in front of the TV and shuffles over to answer the door. Food crumbs fall to the floor and he brushes the rest off his shirt for the sake of looking like he was actually okay.

“Yeah?” he calls, his hand hovering over the handle and his thumb primed to open the lock. Ever since Joker, he hadn’t opened the door to anyone who wouldn’t confirm their identity first.

“It’s Alfred Pennyworth, sir. Mister Wayne thought it best I check up on you after your ordeal with the Joker.”

Gordon huffs, as any man who hated to show weakness does, and opens the door to the butler. If the billionaire playboy could tell he wasn’t doing so well, he clearly needed to do a better job at hiding it.

Alfred smiles and presents him with a brown paper bag. “My special chicken soup,” he clarifies.

Gordon accepts the gift and steps aside, so the other man could enter, closing the door behind him. He can see Alfred inspecting the place… and the mess.

“Mister Wayne is concerned that you might be in need of some help,” Alfred says.

Gordon shakes his head and puts the soup on the kitchen countertop. He turns off the TV and resumes his position on the couch. Lately he hadn’t been sleeping well and with Barbara still in the hospital, he’d let the place slip in to disarray. Takeout packets litter the floor and Gordon hardly had the energy to order and eat the food, let alone put them in the rubbish when he was finished.

“That- that Wayne kid,” Gordon mutters, “I remember my early days on the force with his case, 'course I wasn't 'Jim' back then.”

Alfred notes how the Commissioner avoids the question. He nods politely, “Yes. I think Gotham remembers those days, too.”

Gordon sighs and scratches his moustache, which had finally filled in thanks to minoxidil and the Testosterone . As he closes his eyes, he sees, without his consent, his daughter sprawled out on the floor of this very room and bleeding, crying, shaking. His breathing quickens, as does his heartbeat; sweat forms on his brow. In an instant Alfred’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing hard to ground him.

“ _Breathe,_ " Alfred says sternly.

Gordon is powerless but to obey the command. He steadies his breathing, his mind holding on to the pressure of the hand on his shoulder, and he uses it to focus his thoughts on something other than his vivid and tormenting vision. He opens his eyes again, staring blankly at the dark TV screen in front of him. Jim shrugs off the touch once he’s calm and Alfred retracts his hand. He folds his hands behind his back. 

“I’ll clean this place up for you and then be on my way if that is all you require at the moment, Commissioner Gordon,” he says, his gaze just above the other.

“Uh—Jim. Jim. **Please** ,” he stutters, still mostly out of it.

Alfred gets to work cleaning the small apartment without another word, and little chatter occurs between the two men for the rest of the night until Alfred is caught admiring the tiny wooden airplane model that sat on Jim’s shelf.

“Yeah, that’s the, uh--“

“A Hawker Siddeley Harrier GR.1,” Alfred finishes, “I should know, I piloted one.”

Jim blinks, “No, I cross-checked you during the Wayne case… there was no military service on there.”

“Classified, Jim,” Alfred explains, a playful smirk on his face. Although, really, was that much of an explanation?

“Enough about me,” Alfred dismisses, hoping to break the awkward silence, “How are you, truly?”

Jim was far too exhausted to come up with a lie at this point. He had a feeling the other man knew his pain all too well, even if it was a hidden part of his life. He couldn’t make out the time on his watch without his glasses, but he knew it was late.

“Joker almost took my daughter from me, Alfred, and I still don't know exactly what he did to her when they were alone. If he- if he _put his hands_ on her, I'll--...," he shivers in disgust, "And what he did to me while-… Paraded around naked, made to wear a dress, the awful things I saw in that fucked up rollercoaster of his… I don’t know if I’ll ever forget it.”

Alfred walks around the side of the sofa and takes a seat beside him, “I can hardly imagine what that must have been like for you, Jim. I know from experiences with Master Bruce that being naked or made to wear a dress can be very harmful to a trans person’s state of mind.”

“You did a good job raising that kid, Alfred.” Avoiding the subject again. “A real good job. I want to personally thank you for that. And for stopping him from taking the case files from my desk about his parent’s deaths.”

“And every time after that?” Alfred asks, raising his eyebrows.

Gordon chuckles at the memory of the young Wayne boy bursting in to his office and demanding case notes, old pieces of evidence, even current open cases; his exhausted butler always one step behind him.

“A lot of people wouldn’t have taken on the challenge of raising a child as eagerly and as suddenly as you did,” he praises.

“Now, to say that Bruce is anything but my son is hardly correct,” Alfred says, rubbing his thumb idly over the top of his hand, “I find myself concerned about you, Jim.”

“Great, now the billionaire _and_ his butler are worried for me,” he groans, “I’ll get over this. I won’t end up like those pill-popping freaks in Arkham, that’s for sure.”

Alfred collects himself and stands, brushing his hands over his trousers to smooth them out, “There is no shame in ‘pill-popping’, Jim. Both Master Bruce and I are on some form of medication for our various ailments, mental or otherwise. I have a few names of some marvelous psychiatrists, if you'd just let me..." 

Alfred trails off, searching in his breast pocket for his phone so he could give Jim the numbers of some doctors.

Jim holds up a hand to stop him, "I can work through this on my own."

Master Bruce had said the same thing as a child; Alfred knew the consequences of denying how distraught you were all too well. He, himself, had been quite a mess when he first took up his position at Wayne Manor.

"Take my number, then. In case of emergency," Alfred says. He gives Jim a look that says he wouldn't take no for an answer as he scrawls down his phone number on a piece of paper. He hides a chuckle by clearing his throat at the sight of Jim's old, clunky, flip-top phone that he produces from between the pillows of the sofa. 

"Goodnight, Jim," Alfred nods, clasping Jim's shoulder affectionately.

"'Night, Alfred," he grunts. 


End file.
